Page 65 of Shiver

Riley felt the color drain from his face as the image of Michelle propped against the wall, her hands resting in her lap, her pinkies interlaced came to the forefront of his mind.

“Yep, thought it would sound familiar to you. Just like that young woman killed down there round your parts.”

Riley pushed back his chair and stood. He rubbed a palm across his face and leaned back against the wall.

Devra couldn’t breathe. The chief had her, dead to rights, and soon Riley would look at her the way the chief was looking at her. As if she were a monster. As if everything she’d ever said to him, everything she felt for him was a lie.

“It’s a detail that wouldn’t mean very much, except that was the one detail the police hadn’t released to the papers. So, what I’d like to know, little girl,” Marshall leaned forward across his desk and pinned her to the chair with his cold, hard eyes, “is exactly how you gleaned that little bit of information from those crime scenes.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“She’s psychic,” Riley answered bluntly. His hair was spiked back from running his fingers through it. A defeated look had settled on his face. But he hadn’t given up on her, not yet.

Chief Marshall snorted. “And you believe that?”

“Yes, sir, I do. And I also believe the man who killed Michelle…that is, the man who killed the woman in New Orleans, intends to kill Miss Morgan.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Miss Miller next.”

Chief Marshall leaned back in his chair. “That’s very interesting. Psychic, you say.” He twiddled with the pencil on his desk, while his eyes bore through her.

“I’ve spent the last fifteen years compiling this file. You could say it’s become my life’s work to know everything there is to know about you—to enter the mind of a female serial killer.”

“I am not a killer,” she stated coolly.

He waved a dismissive hand. “There’s just one thing I’ve never been able to determine, and no matter how many times I’ve asked your folks, they won’t tell me.”

Riley stood in the corner, staring at both of them, his face void of expression.

Devra let out a deep breath. “All right, I’ll play. What?”

“How did you break your right pinky?”

Confused, she stared at him, then looked down at her hand. “What are you talking about?”

“I have your medical records right here and apparently at age thirty-six months, you were brought in to see Dr. Carleen to have your right pinky examined. It had been broken and set somewhere else, but Mrs. Miller wanted him to do the follow-up visit. So I’d like to know, how’d you break your pinky?”

“How on earth would I know that? I didn’t even know it had been broken.” She stared again at her hand. All her fingers looked fine. Was he jesting? Trying to trip her up? “I’m sure my parents would have told me if I’d broken my pinky, Chief Marshall. I believe you are mistaken.”

“Nope, says right here. Office visit for an examination of a broken small finger on the patient’s right hand. Couldn’t get your parents to remember anything about it, either.”

“Well, there’s been some mistake, because I’m sure my mother would remember if I’d broken my finger.”

He nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. Which got me thinking, why would they lie? What are they trying to hide? Then it occurred to me that maybe they’re not your parents after all.”

“What? That’s absurd.” She looked at Riley.

“Is it? There’s no birth certificate on file for Devra Miller anywhere in King County. Yet your parents claimed they moved here with you from Evergreen when you were three. They moved to town right before your visit to Dr. Carleen. So I decided to do a little investigating, and would you believe no one remembers the Millers in Evergreen giving birth to a baby girl. Not a soul. I sure find that mighty strange.”

“What are you saying?” Disbelief shook her. It couldn’t be true.

Then why did they send you away? Maybe they didn’t want you. Maybe you aren’t theirs.

She stood, and grabbed the back of the chair. Sickness churned in her stomach. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Right down the hall to the left.”

Devra opened the door and flew down the hall.

Chief Marshall followed her flight. “She’s not psychic, Mr. MacIntyre. That little girl is a fruitcake, had been when she killed my boy, and when she’d been up there in that institution. What we have here is a sick little serial killer.” His determined tone almost sounded sad.

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